


Why I Hold You Here

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Genderswap, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock is the only one who sees Lenore this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why I Hold You Here

**Author's Note:**

> Genderswap fic with female!McCoy.

Spock tries to keep his patience around Lenore. It's especially difficult when she's incensed, usually over something the captain has done or a terrible ordeal in sickbay—when she comes storming into her office after a shift, where Spock waits for her, strands of hair escaping her ponytail and her eyes wild with barely contained frustration. Lenore heads up a magnificent team of doctors and nurses, but as the saying goes, to err is human, and the same goes for all other species represented on their ship.

She's hardest on herself. Chapel, Lenore can forgive in a heartbeat; she'll curse M'Benga to his face but always apologize five minutes later. But when a patient teeters on the brink of death and Lenore is at the helm when he slips away, she affords no kindness toward her own inability to save a life. Spock admires the way she consistently strives for perfection, even though it's highly illogical, as perfection is unattainable in the medical field.

"You performed admirably," he tells her this time, even as she slams her PADD down onto her desk, rips off her soiled scrubs. "You did all that you could." Lenore simply grits her teeth and growls in his direction, her eyes bright above a streak of blood across her cheek.

"Bullshit. Don't bullshit me, Spock."

"It is a matter of fact. You are a highly skilled physician and the likelihood of Lieutenant Dyson's survival was—"

She roars at him. "I _said_ , get out, Spock. _Now_."

He decides not to point out that her original words were nothing like this and simply leaves.

When she shows up at his quarters later, unsteady on her feet and her bloodied cheek now wet with tears, it's difficult to deny her the comfort she so clearly needs. Spock is the only one who ever sees her cry—not even Jim gets to see her like this. It's rare that Spock has the proper words at hand to soothe her, so he simply holds her, fingers buried deep in the dark silk of her unbound hair.

In the morning, as always, she acts as though nothing has happened. She wakes and makes a beeline to Spock's bathroom, using his water ration to wash away the remnants of grime and salt from her cheeks, as though they're reminders of the day itself—the banished residue of memory. He sits up in bed when she returns and she smiles to him.

"You're cute with your hair all mussed," she says, bending to kiss his forehead. "I ever tell you that?"

He reaches up to touch her waist. "On multiple occasions, yes."

All day, Spock thinks of Lenore, no doubt working feverishly in her sickbay. He doesn't worry over her, not exactly. When his mind wanders long enough to make a single miscalculation, he immediately corrects himself and refuses to acknowledge Ensign Chekov's puzzled look.

Later, he waits in her office, hands placed on his knees. When she walks in and spots him, she pauses before ordering the computer to lock the door and render the windows opaque—his first sign that something is about to happen. Lenore is beautiful, her hair pulled from this morning's French braid, wavy and free against the tops of her shoulders. There are light bags under her eyes, telltale signs of exhaustion, but they do nothing to temper her sharp gaze. She looks him over, as if she's making mental notes, and laughs contemptuously.

"God, you're hopeless, aren't you?" she sneers. "Always sitting here, waiting for me, like the family dog."

Spock's eyebrow quirks in response. "I do not comprehend your statement."

"I _said_ , you're a goddamn whipped _pussy_."

Once again, he doesn't point out the inconsistency in her words. Logically, he knows exactly what this is: Lenore is tired, aggravated, and looking for a fight. She's goading him. He knows from Lenore herself that this is how her prior relationship imploded, back on Earth. Spock's spine stiffens as he stands and adjusts the hem of his top.

"If you do not wish to see me, I will take my leave," he says.

"Sure you will." Lenore picks up a PADD on the desk and signs off on something before throwing it down again. "Just do whatever I tell you to do, just like always."

Spock clasps his hands behind his back. "You are attempting to provoke me, Lenore. I can assure you, it will not work. We must endeavor to find a more suitable outlet for your stress and placate you appropriately."

Lenore arches one of her devastating eyebrows, then, and steps closer to Spock, soundly slapping him across his face. He hears the echo of the smack a second after it hits, feels the heat bloom beneath his skin in the next second that follows. He reaches up quickly, instinctively, and grasps Lenore's wrist with a tight grip, causing her to grit her teeth. The fiery look in her eyes makes him feel warm all over.

"You green-blooded bastard," she seethes. She leans in and bites at his mouth, tugs at his lower lip. "You couldn't even _begin_ to placate me, you half-breed momma's boy."

It stings more than the slap. Spock's world narrows to the upturned snarl of Lenore's lips and he pulls her against him brusquely for a rough kiss. He knows he should leave her to her anger, to the things he's not equipped to fix, but Lenore always knows how to tug on the reins until the horse buckles and bows. He holds both of her wrists as he claims her mouth and neck with his teeth, stirred by the radiating waves of her fury and lust. She's an impossible woman on the best of days and when she wants something from Spock, she gets it; right now, what she wants is a distraction.

He hears a litany of _yes yes yeses_ after he spins her in his arms and pins her body to her desk, pushing up the hem of her dress. Lenore reaches out to grip the opposite edge of the desk and grinds her backside against his hips, nearly mewling as he spreads her lips open with his long fingers and quickly finds her clit. He doesn't bother to remove her underwear; he finds he enjoys the minute detail of the elastic rubbing against his knuckles paired with the concept of penetrating her while she's clothed. Sex with Lenore is erotic in a way he never previously imagined sex could be, and this is no exception.

When he seats himself inside her, he nearly groans at her words of encouragement— _yes, darlin', fuck, you feel good, fuck me hard and deep, god, fuck me, Spock_ —drenched in that honey-rich accent of hers, straight from the American South. Lenore feels sublime around his cock, hot and tight and hungry for him. He doesn't go easy on her, thrusting quickly and searching for the deepest angle. When she's like this, she needs it fast and unforgiving. And while he may not have the words to comfort her on most days, he can give her this.

Lenore rocks against his thrusts, moaning loudly as he keeps her pinned with a firm hand on her back. His other hand drifts along her thigh, over skin that he has marveled over now every night for nearly a year: golden and smooth, skin that could only belong to one of Earth's most perfect creatures. She jerks from the heat of his fingertips, moans again, and he feels something tightly coiled begin to unravel inside him.

"Lenore, touch yourself," he commands lowly, between panting breaths. She makes a needy, obliging sound and moves her hand between her legs, rubbing blindly. Her fingers graze Spock's length as he plunges inside her and he shudders, resisting the urge to fall on top of her. Instead, he focuses himself on thrusting harder, searching for the speed and rhythm that will make Lenore fall apart. He feels her orgasm as it starts to build, the telltale contraction of muscles coming faster and faster.

" _Spock_ ," she cries. "God, I'm...I'm—"

He feels her back curve under his hand as her orgasm overtakes her, her muscles constricting around his cock in hot, pulsing waves. He groans and whispers her name as he releases moments later, unable to resist Lenore's body and its whims. Spock works to regain his breath as he slides out of her, and then drops to his knees, gently lapping at the wetness between her legs, their combined tastes, until Lenore is shuddering and reaching back for him, whispering her pleas. He stands and takes her into his arms, lets her take refuge in his body and cling to him.

"Spock, I didn't—"

"Do not apologize."

"Shit," Lenore mutters. She peers up at him. "You know I love you, right?"

Her hazel eyes reflect the office's sterile lighting when he looks at her; they're watery and wide, vulnerable now, no longer windows to a crackling fire. But the fire is far from extinguished; he knows that much. It's his duty to keep it that way. He pulls her closer and shuts his eyes when he feels her warm breath against his neck.

"I am aware," he murmurs into her hair. "I do not require a reminder."

"Too bad," she whispers, gently kissing his throat, her body relaxing against his at last.


End file.
